


Pity

by orphan_account



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: M/M, POV Second Person, chapter 42 spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-20
Updated: 2013-07-20
Packaged: 2017-12-20 19:13:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/890854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s not a lie when you rest a warm hand on his shoulder. “It’s not going to stop hurting. It will just hurt less."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pity

**Author's Note:**

> There's a lot of Jean/Bertholdt fan art around, so a friend and I discussed how it could work and I wrote the thing.

He’s surprised when you quietly tell him you understand what it’s like to lose a friend. Marco does not weigh heavy on your shoulders, nor do the others. It’s necessary, they are soldiers, they were never your friends, just individual steps closer to a result you can’t afford to waver on. Everyone wants to be a meaningful sacrifice and you can promise theirs have a purpose.

Where you see a necessity, Jean sees loss. Always quick to brag, to sneer about what a realist he is, but he has been sheltered from reality until now. His illusions crumble under it and the open wound left is raw and ugly and bleeding.

War has casualties, you remind yourself, he is a soldier too. He never wanted to be a soldier though, just safe and far away from everything you’ve wrought.

But when you see Annie mumble a word for the dead and Reiner grieve for his friends you feel sick and hot and angry and it is only Jean you can spare pity for. You don’t pretend it’s Marco you grieve for, and you let him assume it is Berrick, long gone, a dead child and a memory, not the comrades who balk at duty and the mission and forget who they are and why they are here. The empathy is honest even if you aren’t.

It’s not a lie when you rest a warm hand on his shoulder. “It’s not going to stop hurting. It will just hurt less." In a way you are envious for the reprieve. A quick death is a deep gash that needs stitches. It heals. You think of Reiner and there is no gash, just a shallow scratch that festers into a lesion that does not heal, only oozes sick pus too late, not warning you soon enough as you rot from the inside, putrid and vile and your only choice is a slow death or a bonesaw and you lack the courage to sever something that is a part of you.

The slow ache builds and builds until it suffocates.

He’s surprised when you remove your hand, aware of how it lingers and uncertain of boundaries. A sympathetic moment is not a friendship but it’s difficult not to enjoy the ease of companionship not tinged by betrayal or resentment. The barracks are empty aside from the two of you where you sit, hands in your lap, knees a hair from touching. 

"We’re missing lunch"

You’re not hungry, the anxiety bubbling slowly up inside of you killing your appetite, but Jean looks haggard enough from grief without skipping a meal. 

"I don’t care."

You’re at a loss, without a direction and Jean gives you no hints as to what he wants or expects. You feel uncomfortably hot and sweat runs down the back of your neck, so you stare at your hands and your knees and his lips and mumble out an offer to grab him something from the mess hall.

"You’re leaving?"

"If you want me to."

"What about you, what do you want?" He stares at you, intent, calculated, and you hate every second trapped by his question you don’t know the answer to.

"I’m not hungry."

He is unsatisfied and repeats himself, “Yeah but what do you want?"

"Nothing." You fidget and this time he is the one who puts a hand on your shoulder, steadying you.

"Everyone wants something Bertl, not even Christa is a saint so don’t you pretend to be a martyr too," he says, the dry tone already sounding more like Jean than the depressive morose shell left shaken by Marco. Relief floods through you like a sedative and the first words you think escape through the filter you’ve built up.

"I want to distract you." He does not need to know the rest -that he is a painful mirror you don’t want to look into, that you want to know can stop hurting, that you don’t want to feel guilty for. Vulnerability is not any better in a warrior than a soldier. All you can hope is to be less vulnerable, less weak.   
Jean is not your friend so it’s alright when his thigh bumps against yours, hand sliding from your shoulder to your chest, thumb running along your collarbone before it is replaced by lips. You’re not sure if he knows what he’s doing but it feels good and all you know is one night of stifled fumbling with Reiner that might as well be imagined. The empty barracks are a relief and while Jean is cooler than you expected, it’s pleasant to feel someone under your hands and the appreciative vibration of his mouth against your throat when you run a thumb along the inside of his thigh.

When you dig your fingers in he gasps and he sounds nothing like Reiner. Disappointing, but even more disappointing is how much you wanted him to. The knowledge that Jean is equal in his projections abates your shame only slightly. 

Jean’s paler than you expected beneath his clothes, pale enough blood vessels show through skin like a map to every soft place your fingers can reach. 

"Jeez, do you have a fever or something?" His skin is warmer against yours now, but the difference is noticeable. You don’t bother with an answer, concentrate on removing your remaining buckles.

"Do you know how…?" You trail off into a questioning lilt.

He scoffs, says, “Of course I do."

"Oh," you say, “I didn’t know you’ve done it before."

He flushes, “No -I mean, I know how it works Bertholdt. Not everyone’s from some sheltered backwater village."

You don’t argue. Your childhood had no place for these things. 

Jean’s hands are at your waist, one hand struggling with your belt, the other palming you through fabric, forgoing the friction of thighs. He laughs nervously and mutters, “How do you even walk with that thing."

The only thing that occurs to you to say is a sheepish, “I’m tall," which gracelessly transitions to a moan when Jean finally gets your belt off and takes you into his hand.

With your eyes closed it’s easy to pretend it’s not Jean. You don’t have the calluses of Reiner’s hands memorized, the weight and feel of them not familiar enough to compare. For the first time you’re glad of it. It makes it easier. The mattress dips as you lean back and Jean moves with you, leans over and breathes against your neck. His teeth find purchase against your skin and for a fleeting moment you think about how in this moment he could kill you as easily as he directs you to lay on your stomach. If Jean lives long enough he’ll look back and wish he did.


End file.
